The Six Letter Curse Word
by incense and peppermints
Summary: The situation that inspired Jon to give Arya Needle.


Disclaimer: GRRM owns.

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He'd planned to let her win. At least that was what he told himself when Arya's swing caught him off guard.

He winced and gritted his teeth, surprised as how bad a blow from a stick could smart. "Gods, Arya, if this were real, I'd have no arm."

She beamed and took a bow. "I think I'm a better match for you than Robb."

He smiled and gave a tiny nod of approval, not having the heart to tell her she'd have done more damage to herself than him if the fight had been real. She may have caught him off guard, but her footwork was off, and she swung haphazardly. "Doesn't take much," he remarked, unable to pass up an opportunity to boast his skill over his Robb's. His brother wasn't a half bad swordsmen, but Jon took great pride in being better than him at something.

"Why don't you give me a real lesson now?" Arya asked, eyes hopeful. "With a real sword?"

"Because then, little sister, I'd have no arm," he teased, mussing up her hair.

"Oh, Jon, you know I'd only swing it at a tree, or maybe the air. I want to know what it sounds like when it whirls though the air. Just one swing. I promise I won't hit anything ..."

He raised an eye.

"Important, that is," she admitted. "Please let me. Please, please, please."

Jon hesistated. He was already treading dangerous waters pretend fighting her. "You have any idea how long Father made Robb and I practice with wooden swords before we were allowed to touch the real thing?"

"Forever?" she guessed, sensing her pleading was futile.

"Don't worry, little sister. You will someday, I promise."

"Tomorrow?"

"Arya, what are you doing?" They both rolled their eyes at the familiar voice.

Sansa stood before them with what was supposed to be Arya's stitch sampler in her hand. "Tomorrow you need to show Septa Mordane what you learned today. Why aren't you practicing now? She's going to be quite upset tomorrow when she sees you've gotten nowhere, and we will waste half of our day again on her lecturing you. It's embarrassing." She shook the fabric in Arya's face, and Jon covered his mouth, trying not to laugh at the frazzled mess of threads that was supposed to be Arya's project.

Arya shrugged and yanked her handiwork from Sansa's fingers. "So let her. She's already going to yell at me anyway." She glossed her hand over the threads slowly, and to Sansa's horror, began to rip out the stitching with her fingernails. "It looks as awful as it did the day I started it, and it's not getting any better."

Sansa gasped. "Arya, stop!"

Arya dropped it to the ground and spat on it. "I dare say it looks better this way."

Sansa's eyes widened as she stared mess on the ground.

"I hate needlework," Arya whined. "I hate Septa. I hate … Never mind."

_You_ Jon finished in his head, relieved she caught herself.

"Sansa, I don't think you're going to accomplish anything here," Jon told her. "Except irritating her more."

"You have no idea what it's like," Sansa accused, stabbing her finger at Arya "You have no idea how embarrassing it is to listen to Septa reprimand her everyday. Every day she gets in trouble, and I have to listen to it."

Jon sighed and ran a hand down his face. Little did Sansa know, he understood embarrassment plenty. "Perhaps you might just worry about yourself?"

"I _am_ worried about myself," Sansa said. "When she can't get it right, it affects me because all Septa Mordane does is waste her time correcting her when she could be teaching me more."

"Oh, please." Arya made a face at Sansa. "You're so perfect you'd probably just figure it out anyway."

Sansa stooped down to pick the stitch sampler out of the mud. She held it lightly between her thumb and forefinger and turned her nose up, grimacing at the mixture of spit and dirt. As she got up to walk away, she announced, "I'll save this in case you ever come back to your right mind."

Arya clenched her fists. "You're the one who needs to come back to your right mind."

"Did Septa complain about me to Mother?" Sansa asked, turning her back to Arya as she strolled off with all the grace and poise Arya'd never have. Arya leapt forward. The stick had found its way back into her hands, and Jon foresaw disaster. He shook his head when she glanced back at him in a desperate attempt for her to reconsider, but before he could call out her name, she'd taken a a swing at Sansa's back. Not nearly as hard as she'd hit him. He could tell the swing was meant to annoy her, not hurt her, but still, Sansa yelped, tears welling up in her eyes as she scurried away.

Arya threw the stick to the ground and kicked it. "She's off to tell Mother," she muttered. "I just know it, and I'll be in trouble _again_."

Jon rested a hand on her shoulder. "Glad you didn't have a real sword now?"

She frowned. "Oh, Arya, I'm joking," he told her reassuringly. "I know you wouldn't hit her with a real sword."

"Arya, come here," Lady Stark called from several feet away. Jon nudged her forward, whispering for her not to worry. He wouldn't let her face her mother alone. Rickon was on Catelyn's hip, trying to peel himself away to get a better look at his surroundings. Catelyn sighed and set him down, holding onto his hand so he couldn't escape too far. "What has gotten into you?" she demanded. "Striking your sister? You ought to be ashamed of yourself."

Arya looked to her feet and shrugged.

"I hit Sansa." Jon took a deep breath and stepped forward, unsure of what he planned to do. "Arya and I were pretending to sword fight, and I hit her on accident. Sansa just thinks it was Arya because she was cross with her."

Catelyn looked at Arya and then at him. "Even if I were to believe that, you think that would be an appropriate activity for a young lady?"

Jon struggled. The excuse sounded better in his head than it did aloud.

"Arya, I want you to go to your room. And you…" She paused, locking eyes with him.

He braced himself. _You_ had come out so bitterly what followed wouldn't be good. He met her gaze, and let three words he knew would enrage her roll his tongue. "I'm sorry, Mother." It was a mistake he'd made in earnest as a child, one he now reserved as a weapon. Such a simple word from his lips was more offensive to her then a slur of curse words.

"Do not call me Mother." Her tone was sharp, the cold radiating off her, flooding all of Westeros. "You are not my son, boy. You may my husband's son or the bastard brother of my children, but you have never been my son, and I am not your mother."

Jon nodded. Her words were icier than usual, but not unusually so.

Rickon tugged on her arm, whimpering to be held again. She scooped him into her arms and cradled him against her chest as she glared at Jon. The sight stung more than he was willing to admit. Years ago, it would've amazed him to think she could treat him so coolly while holding her own child so gently, but he was used to it now, and he still didn't regret his decision. Deflecting her attention off Arya was his goal, and he'd been more than successful.

"_Never_ call me Mother," she repeated, as though her first reprimand wasn't strong enough to dissuade him.

"My apologies, but out of all the other things I've thought to call you, Mother seemed the least offensive."

Her sour expression faded to what he presumed was shock. Their relationship was characterized by mutual avoidance. He rarely talked back to her because he rarely spoke to her at all, and when he did, it generally served to further push her away.

"If you must insist on calling me anything, Lady Catelyn will suffice same as it does for anyone who is not my child."

Ayra's mouth gaped, horrified at her mother's words, but Jon was only surprised she'd suggested Lady Catelyn over Lady Stark.

"Mother, please don't be upset with Jon. It was my idea."

"Perhaps so, Arya, but it would seem he knew exactly what he was doing." Catelyn eyed Jon as she spoke. "He should be ashamed for encouraging such behavior."

"But Mother—"

"Go to your room, Arya."

"No," Arya wailed indignantly. "And Jon's not my bastard brother, he's just my brother."

Rickon started to cry amidst the tension. Catelyn caressed his hair and bounced him on her hip, growing increasingly flustered as she attempted to both comfort him and reprimand her daughter. "Go to your room," she instructed again with a look that would've sent terror through any normal child's veins, but Arya was not a normal child.

She crossed her arms and stomped her foot down in staunch refusal. Jon tapped her shoulder, pleading with her to listen. He'd volunteered himself as the scapegoat, but her stubbornness could ruin his plan if she wasn't careful.

When Arya still refused, Lady Catelyn called for Robb, which Jon didn't think it was necessary. Not when he could've brought her there himself without a single word of protest on her part.

Robb looked confused. "Yes, Mother?"

"Please escort your sister away, so I can talk to him."

Robb gave Jon a sympathetic look, yet obeyed his mother without question, taking Arya by the arm and gently tugging her away.

After a long beat of silence, Jon said, "It won't happen again, I promise," but Lady Catelyn would not hear it.

"The last thing my daughter needs is your encouragement."

"Are you sure that's the last thing she needs or the last thing you need?"

"The last thing she needs," Catelyn said. "You may be a bastard, but she is not illegitimate. She has a reputation to uphold, and I will not have that reputation tainted because you think it is fun to encourage her wild behavior. Is that understood?"

She stared at him with such contempt, and Jon couldn't suppress the spiteful urge that arose.

Arya was different, same as he was, and he understood that pain all too well. Neither were accepted for reasons beyond their control. He'd been born a bastard, and she, a girl with a personality too large for a woman's figure to contain. But he wasn't "tainting" her status; he was offering the support she needed and craved.

"Is that understood?" Lady Catelyn raised her voice a notch higher.

"Yes, your Grace," he muttered under his breath, all too eager to end the conversation yet unable to resist to urge to run his mouth again, but he'd made no vow to her. Only to Arya.

If she wanted a sword, she'd get a sword, and gods will it, he'd be the one to give it to her.

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This is my first piece in this section, and I'd really appreciate some feedback on it, so if you could, please take a second to leave a comment or two. Thank you. :)


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